Matt Swan Slightly Less Off Grid

A hill as if drawn by a child

If you are a strict pedant then you may find reading my blog from now on rather uncomfortable. Because although it is titled Matt Swan Off Grid, only the first half is still 100% accurate. My living conditions have, in the last week, altered somewhat, becoming slightly more On Grid. I now lay my head in a slate-roofed two-room building, once a cowshed, then an office, then a storeroom, and now my home. It has (gasp!) mains electrics. There are BT sockets in the walls. And if I perch my laptop on a metal cabinet at the far corner of one room, I can pick up a weak WiFi signal emanating from the main house 15 metres away.

This house is owned by a couple with two kids who took pity on me when they heard that I was being rendered homeless by Snowdonia National Park Authority and offered their outhouse for me to reside in, in exchange for occasional work. For they own a goodly number of acres of fields and woods surrounding the house upon which they graze a small herd of tiny but hardy Scottish sheep (Soay breed) and thus having someone around to fix a broken fence or feed the sheep (and chickens, pigs, dog and snake) when they're away comes in handy.

The dumper truck had been towed out of my bog and up my track, and was back in action

What the outhouse lacks in cooking facilities or plumbing it makes up for in roominess. Unlike my caravan, which may be internally traversed longways in two strides, here I have space for a large sofa and comfy armchair, and coffee table, and a dining table and chairs, and a fridge and lots of cupboards, and that's just one of the two rooms. I sleep on a futon in the other. 

This is the wood that I and my friend had to bring onto my land using my trailer (at least ten loads) because the dump truck couldn't negotiate the steep track.

The rest of it is stored temporarily on friendly neighbours' properties

There are plans to install a sink, with cold water provided from an existing outdoor tap and a drain out to join the main house's drain, and a cooker powered by Liquid Petroleum Gas. There's also an idea to put in a wood burning stove since the existing electric storage heaters cost a fortune to run. (And if you read last week's blog, you'll know that firewood is now something I'm not short of). All of this will no doubt involve drilling holes through the walls which mostly seem to be one-foot-thick slate, so until then I will have to continue to make all my meals in the caravan. Likewise due to lack of a toilet in the outhouse, I'll be timing my bowel movements for when I'm down near my compost toilet.  I will still be spending every day, pretty much, down on the land. It's just a mile or so down a narrow steep lane to my land from my new abode.
  

An old chapel or schoolhouse now used as a haybarn

So these are my living arrangements for this year at least. I'd say I'm still more off the grid than most. But what's important is that I am able to carry on growing quality vegetables on my plot, selling them to those who live around here. The first tiny green shoots of peas, lettuce, cabbage and kale have made a welcome appearance in my compost-filled plastic cell trays. Out in the beds I've sown straight into the soil the seeds of turnip, mange tout and chard, plus seed potatoes and onion sets (basically baby potatoes and onions). Give 'em all a few months of sunshine and showers and they'll be bursting into maturity, becoming plants that offer delicious food for the picking. I can't wait.

I've Got That Sinking Feeling

It isn't every Monday morning that a six tonne dumper truck appears on your doorstep with a load of sawn wood ready to be deposited on your command. It was the first delivery of my larch that the council had asked my permission to fell so they could improve the road barrier. I had been expecting the foreman to come down to discuss where to put it first, but here was a young chap ready to tip the orangey-brown sawnwood right now.

Now my land is beautiful but flawed. One of its flaws is its  bogginess and in particular the patch of swamp just to the right of the parking area. Another is the nature of the access track, being narrow, muddy and very steep slope down.  The truck driver had managed to negotiate the track, at least.  There isn't much room by the parking area for lots of wood but he put the first load there, up an incline. The only other possibilities were a) on the left, down past my polytunnel and caravan to an open area, and b) on the right, through the bog to a clear dry section. I had been advised by the council chap that a dumper truck would make a real mess of the ground so was not keen on option (a), as this is where I spend most of my time. So I suggested (b).

He was all for just driving straight through it but I suggested we check it out first. We stomped around in our wellies, it seemed mostly shallow with one or two deep bits. I asked him what would happen if the truck got stuck. “Good question” he mused. Nevertheless he was prepared to try it. I assumed he, as the dumper truck professional, would have a better idea than me what it was capable of driving through. Unfortunately this confidence turned out to be misplaced as he immediately became mired in the thick black gloop, unable to go forwards or back. There it remained until Tuesday morning when a big tractor appeared driven by an angry man who turned out to be the owner of the dumper truck company.  It failed to pull out the recalcitrant vehicle after many attempts. Later in the day an excavator rumbled down my track and effectively dug the machine out, first the front wheels then the back. “I'll be getting my P45” remarked the young driver.

Hazel catkins

I thought that would be it for bringing wood onto my land but the driver still seemed keen. So I suggested option (a) which at first seemed to go well. The wood was safely tipped onto a big tarp I placed by the caravan in readiness, and the tracks it left in the ground were not too deep. But when he tried to drive up the track and out, a few metres up the huge yellow contraption began to slip off the track sideways. There was a real possibility it could overturn. He extremely cautiously eased it backwards down the steep bank to the side of the track towards the bog, and after the tree surgeon had popped down to fell three young birch that were in the way, he managed to maneouvre it back onto the parking area. When I left this morning to come to Machynlleth to post this blog, it was still there, awaiting something bigger to pull it out of my land.

A tree has fallen into my river over the winter

And finally... I have found somewhere to live! My neighbours a mile up the lane, Stan and Vera*, made the kind offer of the use of their outhouse in exchange for occasional labour. It has mains electricity and electric storage heaters, two rooms, four walls,  two windows and a roof. What it currently lacks is any cooking or washing facilities, or a toilet. The intention is to install a gas cooker of some kind, and a sink plumbed into an external cold tap and to a drain, and possibly a wood burning stove. I'll be moving in before all this is done, but at least I can continue to prepare meals down in my caravan for the time being. This should keep the planning officer at bay!

The early rhubarb forces its way into the open

I've spread the horse muck onto most of the beds that need it

* names changed as usual

Wood Wood Glorious Wood

Disinfecting Pilsdon's bee-keeping equipment the oldfashioned way

I'm back to it. Working the soil, sowing the seeds. The broken panes in the greenhouse have been replaced, the tattered remnants of my winter veg have been removed from the garden, the thirsty soil in the polytunnel has been given a dousing.  Rotted horse manure, the good black stuff, I have tipped barrowload after barrowload onto the long narrow vegetable beds, spreading it evenly then forking it in.  After a winter away I'm putting things back in order, it feels good.

This week is also the time that Gwynedd Council have decided to begin their work improving the safety barrier by the roadside at the far end of my land. This means the felling of eighteen of the larch trees that line the road at that point so that they can extend the concrete base further into my land to support a better barrier. I am rather glad they are doing this as several of those trees have branches overhanging the A road, and the liability rests with me should any branch fall and cause an accident. Not only that but they have agreed to give me all the timber, driving it down and dumping it onto my land. As they are sectionally-felling them from the top down, I'll get them in short-ish pieces so I doubt I'll be able to make planks from them, but it's gonna be a lot of firewood!  I've got a couple of areas cleared and ready for them to dump it all.

The consultation period for the planning application I submitted for my polytunnel and greenhouse ended last Friday. I got an email from the planning officer saying that she had heard from the North Wales Trunk Road Agency asking me to submit all kinds of details about the access to the land, but she thinks they've misunderstood and thought I wanted a new access, so she's told them it's an existing access and hopefully they will relent.

Popping into the Brigand's Inn last week to upload my blogpost using their WiFi, I bumped into the local vicar who I had got to know quite well last year. He introduced me to the new manager of the inn, and I ended up being offered work managing the grounds on an occasional basis! I'll be mowing the front lawn there tomorrow. He also seemed interested in taking my veg, once it's grown. Also the waitress there said she had another job at a cafe in Corris and she believed the manager there would be interested in taking my fresh salad in the summer. Quite a useful trip to the pub all told!

I've also been on the lookout for somewhere else to live that's close by, as I can't stop for long here in the caravan before the (same) planning officer will begin to issue threats of formal action. Talking to neighbours and friends around, there are one or two possibilities. Someone in the local village, Dinas Mawddwy, might have a spare room they'd be willing to rent out. And some neighbours up the lane have offered me something in return for a bit of labour each week, which I'm discussing with them further tonight. I don't think I'm going to be homeless.

p.s. Apologies for the lack of pictures of my land, it's due to technical difficulties (my laptop deciding it doesn't want to charge up any more in my caravan). 

Hi Ho Hi Ho It's Off to Work We Go

As I drew up to the entrance to my land after fifteen weeks away I was met by two neighbours of mine out walking their dogs. We had got to know each other fairly well last year, they grow quite a variety of veg for their own consumption and have a stall on the weekly Machynlleth market selling homemade crafts, him from slate and wood, her from cloth. It was a warm welcome back, having an impromptu natter with these good folk and catch up on the local gossip.   

When I finally made it down the track it was heartening to find the polytunnel and caravan looking just as I'd left them. The greenhouse had a couple of panes out, presumably blown out by the wind. But when I entered the garden enclosure it was obvious that pheasants had managed to get in. All that remained of my winter veg – beautiful kale, purple sprouting broccoli and cabbage – were the stalks, jutting forlornly out of the beds at regular intervals. There were also pheasant feathers scattered around indicating some kind of feeding frenzy or death match. It transpired that the netting had pulled away from the fence at the far end, allowing the hungry birds access to the finest organic food for miles around. The only consolation for me is the thought that the culprits have been shot, although I have already spied at least three still alive and well. Not for long.

The day was spent getting my caravan up and running again – lowering the four legs, filling the water barrel from the stream, refitting the taps, wiping off the mould where it had accumulated around the kitchenette and generally giving it a spring clean – and unpacking my belongings from the trailer and car. Unfortunately rain had managed to creep under the trailer's tarp making some things damp, but this is where having an empty fifteen metre polytunnel comes in really handy. It's like a giant wardrobe-cum-airing-cupboard.

My leaving hamper

So begins my third season alone on my land. I had had a wonderful send-off from Pilsdon, being presented with a leaving card and a hamper full of goodies (home-baked bread, home-made butter and marmalade and crab apple jelly, etc) decorated with real ivy, moss, daffodils, and little Easter eggs. At breakfast the two American children (aged 4 and 2) each gave me a card that they had made, one of which read “I'm really looking forward for you to come back. I love you. I like playing piano with you. How long are you going to stay there? I wish you well” (which the budding pianist had apparently dictated word for word).  I got to hold baby Rowan for the first time, not yet a week old. Everyone came out to wave me off with tea-towels as I drove out of the courtyard, as is the Pilsdon way. People have been extraordinarily generous and kind to me in all sorts of ways.

The "site notice" pinned to a post outside my land

It is with a heady brew of emotions that I return to Wales, as I will very much miss the community of friends that is my winter home but I am also excited to be getting stuck back into the season that awaits me here, to all the challenges I face (not least where I am to live, as the planning officer won't let me remain long in the caravan). It's the sheer sense of being alive that comes from working for myself in the great outdoors, having to tackle problems with my own ingenuity and bare hands yet more and more relying on others around who are offering help. Let's see how these next few months unfold.